The Pieces of a Whole
by Lillielle
Summary: Disclaimer: I own nothing. For the 12 Days of Christmas Style challenge and the Connect the Characters challenge. Six drabbles. 1-Luna/Harry, a walk in the Forbidden Forest. 2-Harry/Bellatrix, a rather...interesting moment. 3-Bellatrix/Hermione, Mistress with her pet.
1. Forest Contemplations

_A/N: For the 12 Days of Christmas Style Challenge and the Connect the Characters challenge._

_Pairing: Luna/Harry._

"It's funny, you know," you tell him, crunching through the fallen leaves with your bare feet.

"What's funny?" Harry eyes you, raising one eyebrow in that skeptical way he has, although you think that is more directed to your missing shoes than anything else.

"Life," you gesture at the fringe of the Forbidden Forest around you, nearly catching one of the thestrals following you in the nose with a hunk of raw meat. It snaps affectionately at your fingers and you give it the treat, giggling as its tongue laps at your skin. "People. They all think they know what's best, and it turns out none of them do."

"Someone must know," he disagrees with you, sticking his hands in his pockets. You tilt your head and study him, the way his shoulders scrunch inward, the worry-line creasing his forehead, right across the lightning bolt.

"No," you shake your head, your radish earrings bobbing against your cheeks. "People know _pieces_ of it. But that's the thing. Pieces aren't the whole."

"I suppose," he trails off, still looking doubtful. You smile anyway. He hasn't dismissed you as mental, that's the important thing, and the reason you went up to him in the first place, four months ago, and asked him, in the most forthright manner you could manage, if he'd like to go to Hogsmeade with you to find the fairy webs. You were both surprised when he said yes.

"Come on," you say, wiping your fingers off on your skirt and smiling airily. "It's time for dinner." As you walk back up to the castle, Harry entwines his fingers with yours, and you feel something prickle deep inside, the most content feeling you've known since your mum died.

"And Luna?" Harry remarks, out of the blue. You look up at him serenely, wondering what he'll say. "Let's find your damn shoes," he says, exasperated as he tugs you up the steps. Your giggles trail after you like soap bubbles as he pulls you after him.


	2. Throw It All Away

_Pairing: Harry/Bellatrix_

_Warnings for teenage masturbation :p_

It's ridiculous. He knows it is. More than ridiculous-it's stupid, foolish, disturbing, any negative adjective he can fling at his overworked brain. It's _wrong_, that's the main thing, and yet he can't push the image of her out of his head.

Bellatrix Lestrange. The Dark Lord's lieutenant, the murderer of his godfather, one of the most deranged and evil women it has ever been his misfortune to dream of...and all he can think is what she'd look like in only her knickers.

He presses his head against the window, the cold leeching away the flushed sweatiness of his face as he takes a deep breath and looks down on the snow-bleached grounds. It is winter holidays and for the moment, he is the only one in the dormitory.

He also has a rather...pressing problem, he thinks and looks awkwardly down at the bulge in his trousers. He glimpsed a picture of Bellatrix in the Daily Prophet earlier (the usual tripe of "have you seen this woman?"), and now he can't stop thinking of what it would be like if she kissed him, mashing his lips back against his teeth as she crooned what a naughty boy he was, as she ripped off his clothes and discarded her own. What it would feel like to be inside her, to caress her, to pinch and bite her and intertwine pain with pleasure (her pain, of course, and his pleasure-despite his fantasies, Harry is not really a masochist). The feel of her breasts against his chest, her wild, dark eyes burning into his as she shrieks his name to the stars above, no longer laughing and calling him a little boy, but accepting that he is more, he will always be more, he will make her _his_...

With a groan and ragged breath, Harry spills himself into his trousers, palming himself through the fabric and pulling his hand away like it's been scalded. He mutters a hasty cleaning charm, his cheeks burning hectic red once more. He can't have just done that, he assures himself, and rushes downstairs to find someone else, anyone else.

Anything to destroy the realisation that if he had the chance, he'd throw it all away for one night spent with _Bellatrix._


	3. Until The Day We Die

_Pairing: Bellatrix/Hermione_

_Warning: Dubious consent, coercion, Stockholm Syndrome_

_Notes: Inspiration from Abney Park's "Until the Day You Die."_

"Until the day you die," Bellatrix whispers in Hermione's ear. "You are mine until the day you die."

"Yes," Hermione whispers, nothing more than the exhalation of another breath. She remains on her knees, as she has been taught, her eyes closed, only the barely perceptible shift of her muscles proof that she has not somehow died as she kneels.

"Good girl," Bellatrix smiles, her dark eyes flashing. "Rise."

Hermione stands obediently, not even shifting from foot to foot as her Mistress circles her, eyeing the slender form, the mane of bushy brown curls that cascades down the seventh-year's back, the downcast amber eyes. The collar that gleams silver around her throat, set with the largest emerald Hermione had ever seen before. It sparks wicked fire at Bellatrix, who can't help but smirk.

"Perfect," Bellatrix murmurs, attaching a fine silver leash to the metal loop that protrudes just underneath the emerald and tugging her pet forward just a bit. Hermione stumbles for a moment before following, her arms bent behind her back.

Bellatrix can't help but admire the pretty brown-haired Mudblood as she follows Bellatrix down the corridor, to the throne room. What an acquisition she was-procured by the Snatchers only a few short months ago and delivered to Bellatrix as a present. Scabior had even tied a big green bow around the girl's neck, and Bellatrix had been too amused to do more than a mild Crucio.

Her precious Potter has tried to save her more than once, but every time, he retreats, empty-handed and defeated. The desolation evident in even his posture is delicious, and spurs Bellatrix onto new heights with her newly acquired pet.

It's taken time-so much precious time-but Hermione Granger is as sweetly biddable as any long-tamed pet now. The old days of fighting and screaming and sobbing until her throat shredded are gone-hopefully for good. And what a beautiful creature she is-Bellatrix may despise those with filthy blood, but even she must admit that some of them look so _delectable_.

"In here," Bellatrix gestures, and Hermione slips in the great double doors before her Mistress. Voldemort is already there, perched on his throne, awash in crimson silk that glitters like blood in the torch-light.

"Pretty pet you have there, but can she perform?" the Dark Lord inquires idly, his maroon eyes burning into Bellatrix's soul. She nearly falls to her knees, weeping in gratitude, before remembering her place.

"Oh, yes, my Lord," her smile is vulpine. "Our little Mudblood performs quite well."

"Then let the show begin," Voldemort hisses, and the room is plunged into darkness.

_Until the day I die,_ echoes through Hermione's mind, and she is lost.


End file.
